


A cape of scarlet, dyed in BLOOD

by Deepdarkwaters



Category: Revolting Rhymes - Roald Dahl
Genre: Animal Death, Cannibalism, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fairytale: Red Riding Hood<br/>And all she murdered in the wood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A cape of scarlet, dyed in BLOOD

**Author's Note:**

  * For [redsnake05](https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/gifts).



> Dahl's original poem and a recording of him reading it: [Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf](http://www.poetryarchive.org/poem/little-red-riding-hood-and-wolf)

_A silly poem by a girl  
Who can't compete with Roald Dahl._

Once upon a far-off time,  
When stories were still told in rhyme,  
And kings in armour rode to battle,  
And women were considered chattel,  
And teeth were black (the Virgin Queen  
Was unconcerned with dental hygiene),  
And life was hard and death came early,  
And sleeves were big and wigs were curly—  
A thousand years ago or so  
There lived a rather handsome fellow,  
Cocked hat garnished with a feather,  
Tights of green and boots of leather.  
The thing about this Robin Hood,  
Who lived among the trees of Sherwood,  
Fighting rich folks' awful snobbery  
With charitable daylight robbery,  
Is this: his dashing press persona  
Hid, in fact, a boring loner.  
He only seemed to come alive  
When stabbing people with his knife  
Or emptying his arrow quiver  
Into someone's heart and liver.  
He didn't care for people starving,  
Scrabbling round for fallen farthings—  
He only cared that they should love him  
And put no one else above him.  
The people called him Prince of Thieves  
And worshipped him among the leaves.  
They didn't think (they wouldn't dare)  
Of treasure mountains in his lair,  
Or what was even more absurd:  
A hero who enjoyed mass murder.

And none of his fans thought to question  
Robin's romantic obsession.  
Maid Marian was lovely, yes,  
With wide blue eyes, a silken dress,  
And auburn curls down to her waist—  
A lady of expensive taste.  
But taste's a word with several meanings:  
One of Mari's stranger leanings  
Was for meat more rare than deer flesh.  
Luckily, they had a reared fresh  
Village full of specimens:  
Organic human venison.  
But Marian (who didn't stay  
A maid more than a single day  
When Robin took her to his wood  
And showed her every trick he could)  
Refused to kill folk in their houses  
Sleeping in pyjama trousers.  
"Where's the fun in THAT?" she cried.  
"I like to know how my meat died!  
I like the chase and special flavour  
That comes from panicky behaviour!  
It's like a magic seasoning!"  
She listened to no reasoning.  
Her Robin was no gastronome  
But liked to keep a happy home,  
So when his lady soon fell pregnant  
And her cravings grew malignant  
He taught her how to hold a bow  
And kill a man with pointed arrow,  
And in return she taught her fella  
How to make a mean paella  
With rice and spice and local mobster  
In the place of boiled lobster,  
And how a simple shepherd's pie  
Tastes better when a shepherd dies.

And soon they had a little girl  
With big eyes and a golden curl  
Right in the middle of her forehead—  
Perhaps an omen she'd be horrid  
Like the girl from out the rhyme.  
Red learned to walk and then to climb,  
And then, deep in a Sherwood thicket:  
"Oh Robbie, dear! Our daughter's wicked!"  
Marian picked up her toddler,  
Began to kiss and then to cuddle her.  
"Did you see her kill the rabbit?  
I do hope this becomes a habit!"  
Robin beamed at both his darlings,  
Surrounded by dead mice and starlings,  
And let out loud the proudest laugh.  
"The girl's a ruddy psychopath!  
Let's watch her close and see just when  
She's ready to move on to men."  
This prodigy, Miss Redmonde Hood,  
Did better than they thought she would,  
And by the age of only four  
She'd shot down her first wild boar,  
And by the age of only five  
No animal she saw survived,  
And by the age of only six  
The minstrels sang about her tricks,  
And by the age of only seven  
She'd sent her own grandpa to heaven.  
In Red's eighth year there was a priest  
Who tried to save her: now deceased.  
The others knew then they were beaten:  
The girl's soul had been lost to Satan.  
But Mari, Red and Robin Hood  
Were happy in their private wood  
And didn't give a single [CENSORED]  
For how much their deeds were censured.

A word of caution to the tourist  
Travelling through Sherwood Forest:  
The Merry Men are fairly grim,  
And Robin, I'd beware of him,  
But even worse, his little daughter,  
Nine years old and drawn to slaughter,  
Will follow you among the trees  
And bring you bleeding to your knees  
And hack your neck and smash your face in,  
Collect your blood in a big basin,  
Bring it back to dad and mother  
And go back out to kill another—  
Because, of course, in Lincoln Green  
It's not that easy to be seen  
Among the leaves and forest branches.  
When Robin's little girl advances,  
Grin spread wide and bowstring humming  
She wants you all to see her coming:  
A cape of scarlet, dyed in BLOOD,  
For Little Miss Red Riding Hood.  
So please take heed on forest trails  
From Inverness to western Wales,  
For somewhere there among the heather,  
In every single kind of weather,  
The girl is lurking, silent, smiling,  
Pin curls blonde and eyes beguiling,  
Waiting for the fear to fill you,  
Waiting in the mud to kill you.

She's fearless, lethal, enigmatic.  
Tenth birthday present: an automatic.

The gun was ace. She went to test it:  
Not even dad's old bow could best it.  
She shot some pugs and bugs and seals,  
And fawns and prawns and cockatiels,  
A manatee, a caribou,  
Some moths and sloths, a cockatoo.  
Then wandering home along the trail,  
Her basket full of hare and quail,  
She heard the sound of heavy paws  
And smiled to herself because  
These stupid wolves, all teeth and fur,  
Knew better than to pick on her.  


But then she lowered down her gun  
And thought, "Let's have a bit of FUN."  
Hid up a tree until she saw  
The wolf knock on her grandma's door.  
She twirled her piece with faultless flair  
And tucked it in her underwear  
And waited til the sky turned black  
To climb down and mount her attack.

So there's the start of all those rumours  
About Red and her lethal bloomers.


End file.
